


Of Smoke And Sex

by Aptemis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A smidge of plot if you squint, Barebacking, Candles!, Drug Addiction, Experienced!Sherlock, M/M, Oh My God, PWP, Post-Reichenbach, Recreational Drug Use, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aptemis/pseuds/Aptemis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Reichenbach Falls. Basically just some smutty goodness, with hardly any plot. Rated M for a reason! Reviews would be fantastically helpful :3 </p><p>((This was written a long time ago--but I just thought I'd throw it up for kicks anyways.))</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a Sunday morning, and the sky was fanned with vibrant hues of orange and red. Slivers of light struck the floor and ricocheted to settle on the opposite wall. John lay awake, his eyes fixed on a place just above the mantle. He had slept in the living room that night, curled up on the couch with his head resting uncomfortably on a small Union Jack pillow. Mrs. Hudson knocked gently on the door. When John didn't answer, she let herself in and started to bustle about in the kitchen. Soon enough the shrill sound of the kettle permeated through the apartment.

"Come on, John, dear." Mrs. Hudson set a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table and tried to rouse him. John looked straight ahead, his eyes glazed over.

"It'll do no use," Mrs. Hudson tried to reason, "Waiting for Sherlock to come home. He's not coming back, dear, it's been months."

"Don't-" John's voice broke from disuse, "Just don't."

She stroked John's hair gently before exiting the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

A siren shrieked in the street outside the apartment, disturbing John's silent Shiva. He groaned and sat up grudgingly. A winding trail of steam rose from the teacup, spiraling gently until it dissipated. John downed the tea with one swig, severely scalding the inside of his mouth. Grimacing, he got to his feet and stood, swaying slightly until the vertigo subsided. The apartment was a mess. Clothes, books and bits of half-eaten food were strewn across the kitchen table, along with Sherlock's spare robe and scarf, which were slung across the back of a chair.

Sighing, John seated himself at the table and picked up the paper that Mrs. Hudson had brought up. The date at the top read November 17, 2011.

John flicked through the paper, briefly scanning the Police column. Just then, Sherlock's coat pocket began to vibrate. Cautiously, John fished a buzzing phone out of the pocket and stared at the small screen.

New Text: +44 20 8224 7042

John did not recognize the number, but curiosity got the better of him. Flipping the phone open, he read the text. Mouth hanging open, he read it again, and then one more time just to be sure he wasn't hallucinating.

There, on the cellphone's minuscule screen, were the words:

Paddington Station-6:30pm

-SH


	2. Chapter 2

John swallowed and snapped the phone shut. If this was a joke, it was a sick one. For a moment he considered calling , but thought better of it. Instead, he traipsed upstairs to his bedroom and changed into a plain button-down shirt and a pair of soot-black jeans. As he looked in the mirror, John started. Underneath his eyes were darkened circles, his eyes themselves were mildly bloodshot and his jawline was lined with stubble. Swearing to himself, he hurriedly shaved and washed his face so he looked somewhat presentable.

After exiting 221b Baker Street, John caught a cab and headed to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. He trotted up the steps and walked to the lab where Molly worked. John paused briefly before entering the room, steeling himself. It had been months since he and Sherlock had sat in this very room together. In fact, it was where they had first met. A lump threatened to rise in John's throat, but he held it back with great effort.

"John?" Came a voice from behind him. Startled, John whipped around. Molly Hooper stood carrying a stack of what looked like metal binders.

"Oh, Molly." John's voice was hoarse from disuse, "Hi."

"Why're you here?" Molly inquired, adjusting the pile of binders in her arms.

"I needed to ask you something." John lowered his voice to a low whisper, "Something about—about…" He faltered.

"About Sherlock?" She gazed at him concernedly. John just nodded; He had avoided saying his name for some time. Molly edged past John and entered the lab, setting down the binders on a nearby table. Everything was exactly the same as before Sherlock's fall, even the leather-wrapped riding crop sat in the same place near a pile of Petri dishes.

"What did you want to know?" Molly asked, turning to face John.

John paused, trying to decide how he'd tell Molly about the text he had received that morning. Wordlessly, he took out the phone from his pocket and opened the text. John held it out to Molly, and she took it, eyes scanning the tiny mobile screen. To John's utmost surprise, her face lit up and her mouth split into a broad smile. At that moment, all John's suspicions were confirmed.

"How'd he survive?"

"I don't know what.."

"Oh, Molly, come on."

She blushed furiously and shrugged sheepishly. John sighed gazed expectantly at her.

"Molly. How and where did he escape?" He queried, putting his hands on her shoulders.

"The laundry truck, he jumped and we caught him!" Molly blurted out.

"I ran to him, I checked his pulse."

"Bouncy ball, under the arm."

"Right, yeah."

John let go of Molly and headed towards the door.

"What about the text?" Molly cried after him.

"You go pick him up at Paddington Station." John snapped, "I won't have anything to do with him."

He left Saint Bartholomew's in a furious state, barely noticing Lestrade as he hailed a taxi.

"John!" shouted Greg, but he took no notice.

As he sped back to 221b Baker Street, John's mind churned angrily. He couldn't quite fathom why Sherlock would trust Molly over him. Shifting in his seat, John stared out the window. Streaks of multicolored light blurred as the cab rushed along. Hoards of tourists roamed the darkened streets, congregating in restaurants tucked into the small corners of London. Even the café next to John's flat was bustling with people toting puffed pastries and jammy dodgers. John paid the cabbie and entered the flat, suddenly exhausted. Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of her room and grinned when she saw him.

"Oh, John, it's good you're getting out." She crooned. John acknowledged her wearily and ascended the stairs to his flat. Collapsing onto the couch, John finally let go. Tears tracked down his cheeks as he clutched the union jack pillow with both arms. John buried his face in Sherlock's discarded robe, breathing in his faint scent.

"I hate you, Sherlock, god I love you." He cried into the fabric. John lay there, body wracked by quiet sobs, for a full hour before he rolled off the couch and checked his watch.

6:47. John moaned inwardly and hurriedly climbed the stairs to his own bedroom. If Sherlock was to return tonight, John wasn't sure he wanted to see him. Yet.


	3. Chapter 3

At about seven thirty, John heard the door open and close, and a pair of feet on the stairs outside his room. Preparing himself, John clenched his jaw and lay back on the bed. He picked up a book and opened it to a random page, staring determinedly at the words. The door handle turned slowly.

Sherlock Holmes, cloaked in his usual billowing overcoat, stood framed in the doorway. His hair was plastered to his forehead, which suggested that it was indeed raining heavily outside. Sherlock turned to face John, who still looked resolutely at the page before him.

"Hello, John." Sherlock started, a bit awkwardly. John remained motionless, fixated on the sentences that stretched across the pages. Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it and exited the room with a swish of his coat. John heard it then; the soft patter of rain on the roof of 221b Baker Street. He breathed deeply and slowly, again repressing the lump that threatened to rise in his throat.

xXx

John refused to come down to the living room, and fell asleep still in his clothes. Faintly he could hear Sherlock bustling around the kitchen and at one point the shrill yell that came from Mrs. Hudson when she laid eyes on the consulting detective.

Morning came quickly, sunlight spreading rapidly across the room like a warm ocean tide. Reluctantly, John heaved himself out of bed and crossed the room to the bathroom, glancing at himself warily in the mirror. He still looked terrible, despite the fact that he had shaved and washed the evening before. John heard no noise from the living room nor the kitchen, so he cautiously descended the stairs, poking his head around the corner. Sherlock was leaning against the fireplace, arms folded across his narrow chest. His face was set in a grim expression, eyes scanning John as he rounded the corner.

"You didn't meet me at the Station." Sherlock stated, adopting an accusatory tone.

"What did you expect?" spat John, striding past him and into the kitchen. Sherlock didn't answer, but followed John doggedly.

"I'm back, John. I'm not dead. Aren't you happy about that?"

John whipped around, stopping Sherlock short.

"Happy?" He hissed, rage boiling up from his very core, "Happy that I had to watch you fling yourself of a fucking ledge with the whole of London watching?"

Sherlock stepped back, affronted. He had deduced that John wouldn't be entirely thrilled about his disappearance, but the pure unbridled emotion that poured from John surprised him somehow. When he tried to say something, John cut him off, a torrent of caustic abuse slicing away any apology Sherlock attempted to make.

"TO THINK THAT I LAY THERE—" John jabbed his finger towards the sofa, "AND PRAYED TO GOD THAT YOU WERE STILL ALIVE—"

The shouted sentences reverberated in Sherlock's brain as he began yet another deduction.

Pain Two Main Subgroups

Physical Pain When a man is impaled by, say, a whaling harpoon, the nerve endings will send pain signals to the brain.

Mental Pain Occurs within the brain, Most common cause Love.

Love. Sherlock knew the basic science behind that specific emotion, and as he let John shout harmful verbal abuse at him, he began to conclude what he probably already knew.

In an instant, the little space between the doctor and the detective vanished. Sherlock's mouth closed upon John's, mid-sentence. They stood there for a moment, entangled with each other, before John wriggled out of Sherlock's grip, staggering backwards and leaning heavily against the wall. Panting, Sherlock righted himself. In truth, he had never done anything like that. The inside of John's mouth tasted a bit foul, as he probably hadn't brushed his teeth, but all the same, it felt amazing. He tasted faintly of honey, and peppermint. Sherlock eyed John, who was still gawking incredulously from a few feet away.

"Sherlock…" John began, his voice breaking, "Sherlock…I waited for you."

"I know."

Sherlock stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do next. He wasn't very adept at social interaction, and certainly not skilled at comforting others.

"I'm sorry," said John sheepishly, "You know, for shouting."

"I felt a bit like a chip-and-pin machine, to be honest."

John's mouth broke into a wide smile, and he began to laugh, clutching his sides. Sherlock joined in, chuckling heartily as he watched John. Still giggling madly, John looked up.

"You're a right bastard, you know that?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Drug Use

The rest of the afternoon consisted mostly of John trying to feed Sherlock, who apparently hadn't eaten in almost three days.

"Where've you been, anyway?" John queried, fishing out a tin of biscuits from the pantry.

"Outside of London, mostly. I ran out of cash so I slept in alleys," Sherlock sat down at the kitchen table, twiddling idly with his old microscope, "Filthy things, alleys." He muttered vaguely.

John set a plate of biscuits down on the table, though Sherlock ignored them. In truth, Sherlock looked dreadful up close. It was evident he hadn't bathed or changed his clothes in some time. There were lines under his eyes, and his ivory skin had adopted a greyish tinge.

"Why don't you go take a shower, I'll make you a cuppa." John suggested, peering at Sherlock over his own mug. Reluctantly, Sherlock agreed, and traipsed up the stairs to the bathroom, his robe trailing behind him. As John put the kettle on the stove, a wail came from upstairs, desperate and pleading. John took the stairs three at a time, and skidded to a halt outside the bathroom door.

"You alright?" He knocked frantically on the wood, pressing his ear against the door, "Sherlock!"

When he received no answer, John turned the door handle and entered the room. Sherlock was slumped in the empty bathtub, fully clothed, one long pale arm draped crookedly over the side. The sleeve of his dirty silk shirt was rolled up past the elbow, revealing purple and blue bruises in the crook of his arm. John bent down next to him, his mouth slightly open in horror.

"It hurts, John." Whimpered Sherlock, the corners of his mouth dragged down in a painful grimace. John ran his finger gently over Sherlock's bruised skin, eyes lingering on the tiny needle marks dotting the flesh. He groaned inwardly at the sight and began to look for a washcloth and antiseptic from the medicine cabinet mounted on the wall.

"Might be infected." The doctor muttered under his breath, swabbing the pinpricks with the antiseptic. Sherlock winced and started to pull his arm away, but John held it fast. When he was done, John reached across and took Sherlock's other arm. As he began to roll up the sleeve, Sherlock moaned and tried to push John away, his pale cheeks flushing.

"What have you done to yourself?" John whispered, placing his hands on either side of Sherlock's head. When Sherlock refused to answer him, the purpled skin on his other arm.

"You need to get washed up, Sherlock."

John carefully unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt, and helped him slip it off. The skin underneath was like porcelain, flushed a soft hue of pink. Thin scars spider webbed across Sherlock's shoulders and back. John ran a finger over the puffy scar tissue, which caused Sherlock to arch his back slightly in response.

"Can you get these off by yourself?" John asked, gesturing to Sherlock's plain black pants. The detective nodded faintly. John planted a kiss on his forehead once more before reluctantly exiting the bathroom. He waited outside the door until he heard the water running before dashing into Sherlock's room. Everything was as he'd left it, as John hadn't had the strength to enter his friend's bedroom since his disappearance. Microscopes, scraps of paper and piles of books were scattered across the bed and the dresser. The bed itself looked fairly unused, which didn't surprise John in the slightest. Bending down, he sniffed at the rumpled sheets. Sherlock's faint scent was discernible through the pungent odor of what smelled like sulfur. John rid the bed of Sherlock's clutter and stripped it, finding new sheets in the linen closet Mrs. Hudson was gracious enough to supply. As he was making the bed, Sherlock stumbled in the room, a towel hung round his thin waist.

"What's all this?" He gestured to the de-cluttered room and clean bed.

"You need sleep, Sherlock." John pulled fresh bedclothes out of the dresser and handed them to him. Sherlock gave him a calculating look as he accepted the shirt and boxers. His eyes were slightly out of focus, and he sagged against the doorframe. Grinning, John crossed the room and took the clothes out of his arms. Carefully, he pulled the shirt over Sherlock's head.

"Thank you, John." Muttered Sherlock, groggily. John paused then, unsure of how to proceed in dressing his friend. He turned round and picked up the boxers from the bed. When he looked back around, Sherlock had dropped his towel, holding it in his right hand. He motioned for the boxers with his free hand, grinning faintly at John's look of bewilderment. Sherlock stepped into the underwear, pulling it up around his thin waist. Trying not to gawk, John led Sherlock to his bed.

"Come on, in you go."

Sherlock slid underneath the covers, sighing with relief. He then looked pointedly up at John, who stood at the side of the bed, looking unsure of himself. Sherlock patted the mattress to the left of him, the corners of his mouth quirking into a reassuring grin. Obliging, John slid in between the covers next to Sherlock. They were quiet for a while, both content in each other's company.

"John?" Sherlock's rumbling voice broke the silence.

"Mm?"

"Do you love me?"

John turned on his side to face the consulting detective, giving him a questioning look.

"You can't guess?"

"I'm asking you, John. I'm giving you the chance to say no, if you want."

"But you already know what I'll say." John cupped Sherlock's face with his right hand.

"Naturally."

John leaned in and kissed Sherlock, biting his lower lip gently as he pulled away. Frustrated, Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and threaded his fingers through the doctor's cropped blonde hair, pressing his lips against John's forcefully. A soft moan escaped from John as Sherlock began to trail kisses along his neck.

"I thought you weren't gay." Sherlock breathed into John's ear.

"I thought the same thing." John pushed the detective down onto the mattress and straddled him. Sherlock's eyes sparkled like blue-grey crystal, his mouth slightly open, breathing ragged. John carefully brought Sherlock's arms over his head, revealing the purpled bruises. Sighing gently, Sherlock let his eye lids flutter shut as John kissed the length of his left arm, nuzzling against his cheek.

"You were doing so well." John breathed into Sherlock's ear.

"Not without my blogger."

John ground his hips into Sherlock's, eliciting a small groan from the detective underneath him. As he kept up a slow rhythm, John's mouth found Sherlock's, lips parted slightly as he panted from the tantalizing pleasure between his legs. John's hand moved steadily down Sherlock's chest and came to rest on his lower abdomen. As his fingers pried away the thin boxers and wrapped around his hardened erection, Sherlock gasped, his pupils blowing wide.

Sherlock put his hand on John's chest, holding him back.

"No." He sounded scared, and small, like a child, "Not now, I…I don't—."

John rolled off him, sighing heavily. His erection throbbed painfully beneath his jeans. Sherlock eyed him warily.

"You're angry with me." He stated.

"No, just—this." John gestured to his tented pants.

"John, It's not that I don't want…don't want this. I just—."

"It's—don't worry about it."

John made to get up and go into the bathroom to finish, but Sherlock took hold of his wrist.

"Stay with me, please?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some smutty smut. First ever attempt at writing it, mind you, so forgive me for any mistakes.

When John woke, the room was empty. He rolled out of bed and went downstairs to find Sherlock hunched over his laptop, a plate of crumbs beside him.

"Oh good, you ate." John put the kettle on and settled himself in an armchair. He eyed the laptop, "What is that, a case? Already?"

"Mhm," Sherlock grunted, not taking his eyes off the screen. The high-pitched squeal of the kettle sounded from the kitchen. As John was pouring himself a cuppa, Sherlock rose from his chair and donned his scarf and coat.

"What, you're going out?" asked John disbelievingly. He had anticipated a talk with Sherlock about the events that transpired last night.

"I need to get some things at the store." Answered Sherlock distractedly, tucking his phone in his coat pocket.

"Fine, ." John sighed, sipping tentatively at his piping hot tea. Just as Sherlock whisked out the door, he paused and gazed adoringly at John, who was busy cursing at the tea which had scalded his tongue.

xXx

In Sherlock's absence, John decided to go out as well. For a long while he walked aimlessly around London, lingering in a number of book shops and getting a bite to eat at a café on Northumberland Terrace. By the time he returned to 221b Baker Street, the sky was fading to a dusky blue, peppered with pinpricks of white light. As he entered the flat, John heard music coming from the living room. Brow furrowing, he pushed the door open. He barely stepped foot in the room before Sherlock was upon him, slamming him against the papered wall and kissing him fiercely. Before John could resist, Sherlock was pulling his sweater off over his head.

"Sherlock." John breathed as the detective pinned his hands over his head. Through John's fluttering lashes he could see that the flat had been decorated with dozens of flickering candles. The pulsing music came from a small boom-box that was perched next to the skull on the mantelpiece. Suddenly, John began to laugh. He doubled over, clutching his sides as Sherlock stepped back, looking slightly hurt.

"What'd I do wrong?"

John waved his hand, still shaking with mirth, "Nothing, nothing. It's just—is all this what you went out for?"

Sherlock nodded sheepishly, looking around at the plethora of candles dotted around the flat, "Step one, set the mood." He muttered.

John looked up at him, "Is that what you were looking up on the laptop this morning?"

Again, Sherlock nodded. Grinning broadly, John resumed his previous position, with his hands pinned over his head, "Alright, show me what you learned."

Obliging, Sherlock took John's head in his hands and continued to kiss him, gently at first, but then more forcefully. He paused to slowly unbutton his own silk shirt, which caused John to shiver with anticipation. The light from the candles shifted over Sherlock's skin, dappling his chest with a warm orange glow. John wrapped his arms around the detective's neck, breathing in his alluring scent. Sherlock's long, nimble fingers began to work at John's belt buckle, and John followed suit, tugging at Sherlock's own pants. Soon they were pressed together, completely devoid of clothing. Sherlock used one finger to tip John's head upwards, and he kissed him, slipping his tongue into John's eager mouth. Responding enthusiastically, John directed them both to the couch, forcing Sherlock down upon the cushions. Being shorter, John momentarily reveled in his advantage as Sherlock writhed underneath him, panting breathily.

"John." Sherlock gasped, struggling to maintain composure. Never in his life had he felt this out of control. He could feel all the emotional barriers he had spent years setting up crumbling around him as John whispered his name, burying his head in the crook between Sherlock's head and neck.

"Come on, Sherlock, let go." The words pushed Sherlock further into his dazed state.

"No, John, my mind—." Sherlock spluttered as John began to slide down his chest, kissing lightly as he went, "—Palace—I.."

John lifted his head, a slightly irritable expression plastered on his candle-lit face, "Sherlock, honestly, not everything needs to be catalogued."

Oh but it did, in Sherlock's whirring head. He tried in vain to store away the feelings of elation that rippled through his body when John touched his bare skin, but he couldn't manage it. Before he knew it he was bucking his hips up into John's mouth, guttural moans escaping from his throat without consent. Pressing on his angular hips, John held him down, bringing Sherlock to the very brink of orgasm, then sliding back up for a long, slow kiss. Sherlock panted desperately, holding John's face in his pale fingers, "God, John, please…John."

He struggled to form a coherent sentence, bucking his hips up against John, trying to make contact.

"Shh." With little effort, John flipped his detective over, exposing his pale backside. John caressed the length of Sherlock's spine, which elicited a shiver and a small pining whimper.

"For god sakes, John, stop being gentle and just—."

John thrust forward, groaning loudly as he felt Sherlock buck backwards against him in response. A pained whine escaped from the detectives' lips as he ground against John's abdomen. Alarmed, John stopped abruptly.

"Sherlock, tell me if you're… in pain."

"Keep going." Was the hissed response he got as Sherlock threw back his head blissfully. Obliging, John began to rock back and forth, gently as he could manage. He could hear Sherlock's breathy moans, and a light stream of what sounded like curses mingled with John's own name.

"I need to see you, god, Sherlock." He pulled out abruptly and flipped Sherlock onto his back, so the detective's flushed face was completely visible. John bent low over him and pressed his lips against his, biting down on Sherlock's full lower lip. As he did so, he thrust back inside, this time with renewed vigor. Sherlock gasped, and John felt a rush of breath on his sweaty neck. With one final thrust, Sherlock's whole body tensed, and he called out John's name, pupils blown wide. Riding out his own orgasm, John fought to keep himself from collapsing on top of Sherlock and letting the sensation overtake him. He did, of course.

The two lay there for a good while in contented silence, as the fresh smell of sex lingered with the smoky scent of the candles.

"What's the final step?" John broke the quiet, his head resting comfortably against Sherlock's chest.

"Tea." Came the answer, "Then a shower."

John grinned and heaved himself up on one elbow, gazing at Sherlock expectantly. He returned the gaze, brow furrowing.

"Seriously, John?"

"Yeah, up you go." John's grin widened. Reluctantly, the only consulting detective in the world rose from the couch and made his blogger a cup of the strongest tea they had. As his back was to John, Sherlock let his exasperated expression slip into the most gleeful smile he had worn in a long, long time.


	6. Chapter 6

"So, obviously, she wouldn't have fled to this point if the killer wasn't chasing after her. Conclusion, she wasn't killed by accident, it was murder. I suggest looking for a—maybe—5'10' to 5'11' male living in a five mile radius of this spot—since it was clearly premeditated, but with a slight element of spontaneity which suggests that the killer would remain in his home for several hours—perhaps days after the crime." Sherlock finished his deduction with a flourish, stripping off his pair of latex gloves and looking pointedly at Lestrade. The detective inspector was still struggling to write down all of Sherlock's suspicions on a small pad of paper, looking rather flustered. John stood to the side, listening intently as the case was unraveled by Sherlock's brilliant mind. It had been a few weeks since his return, and recovery, but the consulting detective was as eager as ever to resume his work. He glanced at John expectantly, arching an eyebrow.

"Right—yeah—brilliant!" The doctor complimented, jolting out of his reverie. Sherlock smiled appreciatively and turned back to Lestrade.

"Are we done?" He asked.

"Yeah, yeah, alright—but I'll need you tomorrow morning at the Yard to go over this evidence." Lestrade nodded to John and strode away towards his cruiser, where Donovan stood looking quite irritable.

"What, are they a couple then?" Donovan queried bitterly. The detective inspector turned to see Sherlock exiting the crime scene, leading John by the hand.

"I think they always were." Greg grinned at the sight, making a subconscious promise to inform Mycroft when he got home.

XxX

"John, where's my robe?" Sherlock called into the kitchen, where the doctor was making breakfast.

"I threw it away after you burned it with acid." He spooned eggs onto two plates and set them on the table, "Come have some food before we leave."

"You threw away my bathrobe?" Sherlock entered the kitchen, his dark hair tousled and his brow crinkled.

"I'll buy you a new one today, if you like." John sat at the table and began to stab at his eggs. Looking up, he gestured to the chair opposite him, "Sit."

The detective sidled over, lips pursed in a calculating expression. He picked at his food reluctantly, mostly to please John, who sat watching him.

"Good?" The doctor queried anxiously.

"Delicious." Sherlock grinned, as it was true, although there was a slight chemical taste to the eggs, which was to be expected with all Sherlock's various experiments dotted around the kitchen.

XxX

Scotland Yard was in a frenzy that morning, particularly Lestrade's office. The detective inspector himself looked pleased, and accepted the well-wishers graciously.

"What's going on?" John asked, poking his head into Greg's office. The inspector ushered them inside, politely excusing himself from several boisterous officers.

"Caught him, just last night." Lestrade puffed out his chest, grinning gleefully, "Thanks to you, of course." He slapped Sherlock heartily on the back, ignoring the huff of annoyance from the consulting detective.

"I didn't call—because, well, I thought I'd be disturbing you two." Greg beamed mischievously and shot John a meaningful glance.

"—Excuse me, what?" John stuttered as Sherlock's lips quirked in amusement.

" You two are—together, aren't you?" Lestrade paused, looking slightly panicked.

"If you're inquiring about our sex life," Sherlock interjected, eliciting a squeak of protest from John, "Then yes, we are together. In every sense of the word."

"Sherlock!" John blushed a brilliant shade of red, throwing Greg an apologetic glance. Lestrade, however, was beaming delightedly, and didn't seem at all perturbed by Sherlock's declaration. In fact, he looked a bit smug.

"That's fifty quid." Lestrade proclaimed triumphantly, giving Sherlock another enthusiastic slap on the back. He bade them goodbye and ambled off into the crowd of cheery looking policemen, who were now passing around an enormous box of chocolate éclairs.

"Were they—betting on us?" John asked, baffled. Sherlock nodded, grinning slightly, "Since we first met, yes. They were getting antsy."

Anderson nudged Donovan with his elbow, scrunching up his face in disgust, "The freak and the doctor, then?" He sneered, loud enough for both Sherlock and John to hear. Sally half ignored him, giving him a weak smile before letting her features fall back into a grimace. Sherlock turned slowly on the spot, eyebrows raised. Wordlessly, Sherlock placed his hands on either side of John's face and pulled him upwards for a kiss. The shock on Anderson's face was immeasurable. Pulling away, Sherlock seized a bewildered John's hand and led him out of the office, pausing only to deliver a parting jest to Anderson.

"Jealous?" He smirked, quirking an eyebrow.

XxX

"Sher—Sherlock, not here!" John hissed, swatting away Sherlock's wandering hand. They were seated in the back of a cab, returning home after a rather embarrassing encounter with Mycroft.

"I want to," Sherlock whined, nuzzling John's ear affectionately, "I bought lubrication." He added, pressing his lips to John's tanned neck.

Since their last exploit, Sherlock had been researching further about what would make the sex more comfortable. Although Sherlock had enjoyed it thoroughly, he couldn't quite help but admit that penetration without preparation was a bit painful. For the next couple hours afterwards the experience, Sherlock had hobbled around, wincing whenever he sat.

"Aah, Sherlock, okay." John huffed, swallowing hard. The cabbie was eyeing them in his rearview mirror, a displeased look set on his face. Gently, John removed Sherlock's hand from the nagging bulge in his jeans, entwining their fingers instead.

"When we get home, 's going to wish she had soundproofed the walls." John remarked quietly. Sherlock grinned contentedly and drew away, turning towards the window. When the cab pulled up in front of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock practically dragged John from the vehicle, barely allowing the doctor to tip the cabbie and utter a hurried apology.


End file.
